


Types of Girls

by orphan_account



Category: Everfound (Band), My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, SYML - Fandom
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Gender or Sex Swap, Love, Minor Violence, Other, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love, will add more characters over time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-04-27 22:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14435766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: this is based off of a prompt I found on pinterest about different types of girls. not all of the prompts will have a connection to Panic! or MCR or Everfound or SYML, but some will. please enjoy-iaoot13





	1. Neon

**Author's Note:**

> leather jackets, ripped jeans, confetti, loud concerts, carrying a lighter even though she doesn't smoke, knowing looks, beaches at midnight, vintage vinyls, polaroids of past parties
> 
>  
> 
> \----
> 
>  
> 
> vaguely inspired by SYML's music video of "Were's My Love"

Cloe closed her eyes as the shock waves of hitting concrete floor with her converse traveled up her legs and numbed her feet. She tensed her leg muscles and pressed her toes into the bottom padding of her shoes, then used the momentum of her raising her arms to propel herself into the air. She fell back in place, feet numbing again and her knees aching from the impact. Additional pain spread across her spin and her ribs as various elbows collided with her flesh. A stray hand wacked her in the stomach as she tried to make her third ascent into the air. All of the oxygen in her lugs rushed out in the impact, leaving only concert adrenaline, endorphins from feeling of thumping bass, and the sticky residue in the back of her mind that reminds her of her needs. All of this took place in the space of five seconds. 

 

The confetti that was dropped on the crowd halfway through the concert was now sticking to her body along with her t-shirt. She glanced down and saw that her older brother’s hand-me-down jeans were beginning to slip down her hips, despite the studded belt that wrapped around her waist. Her head jerked up suddenly as another elbow connected with her nose. Through tearful eyes she saw the elbow retract, covered in blood. Looking down again, Cloe watched as her faded white t-shirt became stained with red, making the material more damp and her black bra more visible. Her vital fluid ran down her cupid’s bow and over her open mouth. She knew that her teeth were now dyed red from the copper taste in her mouth. It was time to go. 

 

She burst out of the old club turned rave house and into the nippy New Jersey air. The residual impact of bass and concrete followed Cloe until she tossed off her converse and stepped onto the cold sand of Jersey Beach. She sighed as the frigid granules scratched between her toes and wormed their way underneath her toenails. The sea looked so deadly tonight, the full moon shone bright on the violent surface; the liquid seemed black in the dark, contrasting against the almost white sheen of the sand. Cloe tore her eyes away from the hypnotic sight and looked down at her bare feet. A small red stain was forming on the sand, growing larger with each drop that fell from her damaged nose. Laughter began bubbling in her throat; it was so fucking funny. Here she was, blood pouring from her body and a grave five feet away but love was holding her back. Well, love and music.

 

Pulling a crumpled polaroid out of her back pocket, Cloe used her stained fingers to smooth the picture out. She examined it in the weak light of the moon. One pale and bright red finger traced over the face that was next to her own in the photograph. The face was dark and soft, a smile of pure joy spread across the skin. Blue and green ticker-tape stuck to the cheeks and forehead, offsetting the darkness of the flesh. Dark black eyes squinted in mirth at the camera, lined with pale pink eyeshadow. Cloe’s finger followed the figure down it’s long smooth neck and across the bare shoulders. Only thin black straps of a dress blocked her path. She kept going down the left arm of the figure; the right arm from Cloe’s position. She only stopped when she reached pale fingers wrapped around the dark wrist. 

 

Cloe sucked her right cheek into her mouth as she pulled her bloody finger away from the polaroid. A dark skinned girl with frizzy hair and a face of unfiltered joy laughed at the camera as she was embraced by a short pale girl with dead eyes, bloody nose, and a twitch at the corner of her lips. The first girl wore a black slip dress and large gold hoop earrings. The second had an oversized leather jacket over her shoulders, fingerless skeleton gloves on her hands, and ripped jeans over her skinny legs. The dark girl was holding a Beatles vinyl in her right hand; the album was frayed at the edges. At the bottom of the photograph was: “Pembe + Cloe ; 1998”

 

The photograph fluttered through the air and landed on bloody sand. The accompaniment of a blood stained t-shirt and torn jeans caused the polaroid to shift more. In the distance, a pale skinny girl with dead eyes, bloody nose, and a twitch at the corner of her mouth walked into the frigid New Jersey waters until she was shoulder deep. Without an iota of a sound, the figure disappeared under the black waves, the only witnesses being the bubbles at the surface.


	2. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wild hair, bruised and bloody knuckles, death glares, bloodshot eyes, bitting your lip till it bleeds, stubbing out a cigarette on your hand
> 
>  
> 
> \------
> 
> Ruslan (from Everfound) x OC
> 
> \------
> 
> If your first name is Ruslan and your last name is Odnoralov and your in a band called Everfound, don't read this please :)

The pain flashed through her hand and mind and through her very fucking toes as her flesh burned from the cherry of the cigaret. No sound was made other than the gentle hiss of the extinguished joint and the pained exhale.  Her eyes flew open as her cig was roughly jerked out of her hand. Before her kneeled Ruslan who, because he was five years older than her, should not be behind her high school. He certainly should not be here to see her, getting high, and then getting higher. He shouldn’t have to know about her methods; how she copes. It filled her with some sort of unholy rage. 

 

Ruslan was saying something. She couldn’t tell what it was past the sound of blood and endorphins rushing in her ears. His fingers were against her jaw, when did that happen? He was pulling at her bottom lip with his thumbs, why? She thought she had driven him away, that her violence was enough to scare such an innocent soul. It made her more mad. Didn’t he see that he didn’t deserve her? That she was some demon cast from hell, that neither heaven nor the eternal abyss could have her? That she was destined to be alone? That she had been given a heart too small, emotions too big, and fists too strong? He obviously didn’t. A haze settled before her eyes and her fists tightened in her lap. Blood trickled down her chin where she had bitten through her lip. Her brow deepend, eyebrows lowering and knitting together. Her nostrils flared. 

 

She was trying to reign herself, trying to avoid what she wanted to do so badly. But she didn’t have any alternative. She wanted to destroy him; Ruslan. She wanted to make him hurt, feel everything that she felt every fucking day, what she had to avoid by getting high. She wanted to push him down, she wanted him under her. She wanted to see him stretched out and laid bare, every fucking secret, every fucking emotion, every fucking thought. She wanted to see him loose every inch of composure, saying nonsense and clawing for her to stop. It burned in her chest, down between her legs, under her fingernails, pulsed in her fucking lousy brain. She wanted to see him  _ bleed _ . 

 

He would look so pretty. Stretched out for her on his large bed, chest heaving and glistening with sweat, wrists bound to the headboard, red scratches down his ribs, nipples peaked against the cold air she’d blow on him, mouth raw and open, thighs spread wantonly leaving  _ everything _ on display. And he’d be hers, all hers. No one could touch him like she did, no one got to, no one would even get the privilege of seeing him like that. It would be all for her. She’d claim him, leave bruises on his hips or collar bone, maybe his wrists or thighs if he was good. She could come up to him in the middle of the day and press her fingers against his hip, listen to his voice waver as he tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy.

 

But she couldn’t have that. He was too clean, too pure, to ever consider such a thing. She would bet good money that he’s never even thought about looking up porn, much less submitting to some pain addicted freak of a girl. 

 

She stood up suddenly, causing Ruslan to fall backward, hands getting cut up by the gravel on the ground. She swiftly turned and punched to brick of the school building. Fuck it hurt, but it was so damn good. She throbed all over, her nuckles were bleeding, but it was worth seeing the shock on Ruslan’s face. She punch again, this time with her other hand. The sharp brick cut into her flesh and hit her bone. Her mouth parted in a low whine at the pain-pleasure-pain. She raised her first hand to punch again when suddenly she couldn’t. Both of her arms were now trapped by her side by arms wrapped around her body. It was Ruslan. His face was pressed between her shoulder blades and his body was shaking. Good. That meant she scared him. Let him see the monster, she didn’t care; maybe he would run this time.

 

He didn’t. He just stayed there, his body shaking against hers, the back of her tank top steadily becoming wet with his tears. He was trying to speak, she could feel his mouth moving against her back, against the place just above her bra where her tank top didn’t cover. It felt good, it was grounding. She took a deep breath. Ruslan’s hold had loosened up, so she turned around and embraced him. For once, she was happy that she was taller than him. He pressed his tear streaked face into her neck, and she stroked his shoulder blades gently. They just stood there. Time seemed to slow down, and it was just them in their little bubble. She pressed a kiss against his temple, smearing blood against his brown hair and pale skin. He shuddered through a breath, then shifted forward leaning onto her so much that she had to rest her body against the brick wall. 

 

She tightened her grip on him, and became determined to not let go. Needs be damned, Ruslan came first. That’s what love meant right?


	3. Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> huge sweaters, dancing in the kitchen while waiting for something to cook, sliding across floors in socks, driving late at night, fields of flowers, fairy lights, lyrics scribbled messily on the back of the hand
> 
> \-------
> 
> a Panic!GSF with focus on always-a-girl!Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross
> 
> \--------
> 
> If your name is Spencer Smith, Jon Walker, Brendon Urie, or Ryan Ross and you were in Panic! at the Disco or Panic at the Disco (apparently there is some issue with the !) please don't read this. And if you do read it....I hope you enjoy it?

Brendon danced around the kitchen in the cabin barefoot while her cinnamon rolls were cooking in the oven. Her legs were also bare, all the way up to the very tippity top of her thighs, where the beginnings of lacy blue hipster cut underwear were just visible. The rest of the underwear was cut off from view by one of Jon’s sweatshirts, something large and reminiscent of his college days. She was humming a tune, vaguely similar to something they were working on in the soundroom around lunch time. Very close to the one she had at the back of her throat when she kissed Spencer awake this morning.

 

Ryan watched her dance from his perch on the wooden bar-stool. He had a soft smile on his face, a smile that he typically reserved for Brendon, when she wasn’t pissing him off with her flirty nature or inability to sing the way he wanted her to. His smile for Spencer was toothy and wide, like that of a child given ice cream on a hot summer’s day. His smile for Jon was lazy more like a smirk than an actual smile. But his smile for Brendon was fond and beautiful, full of emotion; windows into his very mind. 

 

Spencer leaned against the doorway that separated the living room from the kitchen and breakfast nook. He watched Ryan stare at Brendon, and he smiled. He knew that coming here would get those two to work out their shit. Well, for Ryan to finally get over his fears and welcome Brendon into his heart. Brendon had been trying for many years to get closer and closer to Ryan. Every step forward was just another door in the face. There were many nights were Spencer had to hold Brendon as she cried, then kiss the tears away and fuck the sadness out of her. What did it result in? This weird relationship that they’ve got going. It’s like they share Brendon, all three of them.

 

Spencer started a bit when Jon’s arms wrapped around his waist, hands holding onto his hips. He smiled wryly then leaned back into Jon’s chest, and they watched Ryan and Brendon together.

 

The timer went off for the oven, and Brendon spun around with her oven mitts ready. She took the skillet out of the oven, and the smell of sugar and cinnamon filled the room. Everyone’s stomachs growled at once. Brendon laughed, her face alight with so much joy. Ryan stood up to help her dish out the sweet food. After plating up Spencer and Jon’s portions Brendon got distracted when Ryan licked the icing off of her fingers, tongue running up and down her fingers, swirling around the tips. It was a crude mimic of an act she had seen performed on Jon so many times. Accept, with Jon, Ryan’s lips were usually bright red and stretched thin, mouth forced wide to accommodate everything Jon had to give. But his eyes were still the same, hooded and pupils blown to hide every bit of brown iris. He loved giving blowjobs.

 

Brendon groaned as Ryan gave one last lick to the tip of her index finger and pulled away. She gave him a quick glance over, saw how hard he was in a pair of Jon’s sweatpants, and groaned again. She shook her head violently, then turned back to dishing up the cinnamon rolls. Ryan whined high in his throat and Brendon grinned, her nose scrunching up. She grabbed the plates and waltzed by him, kissed Spencer on the cheek, and squealed when Jon slapped her ass.

 

\-----

 

The next morning Spencer walked into the living room to see Brendon and Jon having some sort of viscous dance fight, in socks. Muttering something about hospital bills, he walked into the kitchen to find Ryan pouring himself a mug of coffee. He kissed Ryan good morning, ignoring how the latter wrinkled his nose at “morning breath” and stole his coffee. A loud thump and a shout of laughter was all the warning they had before Brendon came barreling in, swinging herself around and hiding behind Spencer; her hands gripping his hips hard under his shirt.

 

Jon was close behind and stood in front of SpencerBrendon faux menacingly. “You can’t hurt Spencer!” Brendon exclaimed, “He’s too pretty!” Jon seemed to take that into account, cocking his head to the side, then nodded. He stepped forward and cupped his hands against Spencer’s jaw. “Good morning,” his whispered against Spencer’s lips. And then they were making out.

 

\-----

 

Ryan yawned and looked at the clock on the dashboard, it was nearing midnight and Brendon still hadn’t told him where they were going. He opened his mouth to protest the lateness of the hour, but she (with her fucking psychic ability) slapped his thigh and told him to shut up. 

 

She abruptly turned down a dirt path and parked in front of an old iron gate, the type you see in western movies. She leapt out of the truck and over the gate before he could say anything, and disappeared into the darkness. With a reluctant sigh Ryan got out of the car and followed her. She was standing in the dark field with her eyes wide and reflecting all the light of the moon. Everything she could ever say was in those eyes, they were so big. He suddenly had a burst of inspiration and pulled a pen out of his front pocket then grabbed her hand. Ryan swiftly wrote “Your eyes are the size of the moon” on her palm. 

 

Brendon grinned up at him, the fucking eyes still shining, and kissed him. Behind his eyelids lights flashed and when he opened them, he could see all of Brendon’s pale skin is sharp relief to her black eyelashes and tan freckles. All around them where thousands of flashing fireflies, illuminating the field around them and displaying all of the bluebells that had closed up for the night. He then closed his eyes again; it could be just them.


	4. Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparkling eyes, echoing laughs, paint covered hands, colorful bandaids, plants scattered across the room, flower crowns, multi colored converse
> 
> \--------
> 
> If your name is Frank Iero and you were in MCR, please please please don't read this, thanks XD
> 
> \--------
> 
> I don't own anything accept for the story

She was alive and healthy. Alive and sitting in his fucking living room, nodding her head along to his music that she must have found on the CD rack. She had been gone for so long; so fucking long. And now she just appears in his house like nothing was wrong, like she hadn’t dropped of the fucking map for a fucking year. _ A fucking year. _

 

Frank’s fingers tightened, the nails dug into his palms. He watched her carefully. She hadn’t noticed him yet, which was probably for the best. She really had changed. Her hair didn’t look greasy, it seemed clean and shone (at least, as much as black hair can), and it was short; it neared somewhere around her jaw. Her skin was still pale, but it was a healthy pale, not the nearly translucent pale that scared him.  Her eyes (what he could see of them from this angle) seemed to sparkle almost, no longer holding that dead bone-deep tiredness that polluted the very atmosphere around her. Her long fingers didn’t contain blood and bruises and scrapes like he had last seen them, there wasn’t any blood under the fingernails. They weren’t bitten down to stubs. She looked healthy. 

 

“Does Gee and Mikey know you’re here?” Frank spoke suddenly, almost compelled to do so. Her head turned swiftly to see him standing in the doorway. For a brief moment her face twisted into the typical calculated and closed off expression he knew she had copied from Mikey, but then it was gone. So fast it was like he had imagined it. A blinding grin spread across her face, lips cherry red. 

 

“No, I thought you would be the least likely to flip shit when I showed up.” Frank scoffed internally. They dated for nearly 3 years and she suddenly disappeared leaving only a video behind, saved on a flash-drive.

 

The video was her, sitting in a hotel room in Denver. Frank knew that because he stayed in that hotel room. He was actually sleeping in the background on the hotel bed. He fucked her the same night she made that video in that hotel room. If that didn’t feel like a fucking stab in the back he didn’t know what was. The video version of his girlfriend had a watery smile on her lips, and her eyes were wet.  

 

“Hey guys,” she had croaked, obviously on the emotional edge, “I’m going to be gone for a while.” She’d paused to sniff and rub at her eyes. “I need to do this; it’s okay, you guys won’t miss me! So everything will work out in the end!” She had paused again and looked down in her lap, long thin fingers twisting together. “The truth is, I’m sick- sick mentally, not physically- I, I’m okay physically, but not mentally.” She ran her fingers through her hair, past her shoulders and black black black. “I need to get better a-and I can’t do it on tour.” A tear had trickled down her pale cheek. 

 

“Gerard, this has nothing to do with you, I know you’ll blame yourself, but it has 100% nothing abso-fucking-lutely to do with you. You too Mikey. Both of you are the most amazing brothers, and you have to promise me to look after eachother. Please, promise me.” Jokingly, she had raised up her fist with her thumb, index, and pinky finger outstretched, American Sign Language for “love you”. 

 

“Ray, I shouldn’t be asking you this, but please look after Mikey, Gerard, a-a-and Frank.” At the mention of her boyfriend’s name, she gave a wet sob. 

 

“F-frank, I….I-I-I don’t,” she shakily sighed and wiped at her cheeks and eyes with her hands. “It’s not you. You did nothing.” She finally said. “You are not to blame. If you hate me t-then...so be it. But it’s not your fault. You can’t fix me, and I’ve kn-known that you tried. You would hold me when I wouldn’t get out of bed, you would just wrap your arms around me and talk. You would bring me blankets or just lay on me because it gave me a-a s-sense of security. I need to get better, I’ll just make you worse! Or just drag everyone down!” She had bitten her lip then and inhaled, “And I want to tell you that I love you.” She said it in one big rush. “I know it’s a shitty thing to say, especially for the first time, when I’m about to leave, but I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

Looking back on it, it was a really shitty thing to do. And Frank couldn’t tell if he hated her for it. Mostly he just hated himself. He spent so many nights curled up in the bunk that she had occupied on their tour bus, face buried into the blankets or pillows she had used, trying to catch whiffs of her scent. Since she took after Mikey in body type, Frank would sometimes get desperate and pull out a hoodie or two of hers that managed to sneak into his suitcase; he suspected that she had put them there after an in-depth discussion about how Frank liked her smell. 

 

A whole fucking year of fucking crying into her fucking pillows. A whole fucking year of watching Gerard try to be strong (he saw those glances towards Ray’s beer bottle). A whole fucking year of seeing Mikey’s eyes get more and more pained. A whole fucking year of praying every single fucking night to a god that he had lost faith in years ago for her to be safe and alive. It was just too much.

 

And now she was tapping her fingers in time to the drum beat of his songs. Songs that he made after MCR broke up. 

 

“Hmm, this sounds like your voice. Did you do a solo project? Like, when you guys weren’t on tour?” Damn, she really had missed a lot, Frank thought a little hysterically.

 

“Uh, something like that.” He was trying to remain calm, but her facade was making it hard to do so. “Where were you.” It was more of a statement than a question, Frank’s voice was getting really fucking tight. 

 

“At a mental hospital in Vancouver,” she answered like it was no big deal. The metaphorical shit was now going to hit the metaphorical fan.

 

“That’s it. That’s all you’re going to tell me?!? You do realize that you were gone for a whole fucking year!?!?!” Frank’s voice was steadily rising in pitch. She looked surprised, like she’d never expect him to get mad at her for this.

 

“Uh, yeah.” She said slowly. “I went to the hospital in Vancouver. Got diagnosed with social anxiety, depression, and suicidal thoughts. I got a fuck ton of medication and had to stay in therapy for around 7 months. I couldn’t trust myself to return until last month.” Frank took that all in.

 

“You mean to say, that it would have been possible for you to give some indication that you were alive! Why wouldn’t you do it?! I thought you were dead!” Frank was yelling now.

 

“I didn’t think you would care! I thought I was a waste of space! J-just a fucking place marker t-to fill up the hole left by J-jamia! I didn’t think you would fucking care!” She had stood up and was running her fingers through her hair, obviously distressed. Her stutter was coming out. It kind of really stood out just how much she had changed. Her stutter was a big part of her, something she had since a little kid. Now she’s fixed it. Well, she had fixed it.

 

“I-I didn’t think any of you w-would care! I thought you would j-just forget about m-me once I left, that it wouldn’t h-hurt! I thought you may worry a bit at f-first, b-but not e-enough for you guys to want me b-back!” Her eyes were still sparkling, but for a different reason. Frank was dumbfounded.

 

“How the hell did you think that you were a fucking placeholder?! What the fuck did I or anyone do to make you think that?!” Frank’s voice was softer now, but he was still distressed. Mostly confused, but still distressed.

 

“Y-you didn’t do anything!” She cried. “It was m-me! That’s why I needed help! I couldn’t fucking see that people loved me! I just kept thinking ‘you’re worthless, no one loves you, frank doesn’t love you, mikey thinks you’re a terrible younger sister, gerard never wanted another y-younger sibling, m-ma and dad never wanted you, R-ray thinks you’re a nousince, you’ll never be g-good enough, stop trying, d-die, die, die!’ It got to be too fucking much F-frank!” She was crying, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

 

“I couldn’t do it! That night, at the hotel room, I was lying in bed and I thought about it.” She choked a bit. “I thought about going to the roof and throwing myself off! That’s why I when I realized I had to get h-help. That was why I had woken you up. It sounds so shitty to say this, but it was...i-it was s-sort of like goodbye.” 

 

“Goodbye sex,” he said bitterly. She winced and twisted her fingers together.

 

“Yes, it was shitty. I’m sorry.” She was still crying, but she was now shrinking back on herself, very emotionally worn out. 

 

Frank sighed. He felt tired and sore, like he spent hours crying. He had honestly. But he thought he was getting over it; maybe the universe really did hate him.

 

He walked up to her and hesitantly wrapped his arms around her. She gave another choking sound, then hugged him back. Frank practically melted in her embrace, having gone so long without her bony warmth and love. He pressed his face into her chest. It was a habit that the guys would make fun of her for, that he would find comfort in the most soft place of her body. But she didn’t mind. 

 

And the guys had no room to talk, they had probably each done it. Accept Ray. She was kind of weird about how close Ray could get to her. She explained once that it had to do with the fact that he was married and she didn’t want to do anything that would upset Christa. 

 

Anyway, Frank had gone so long without this. He felt so deprived. It ached in his very bones, this need for love. He thought himself loveless; not worthy of love. But here she was, alive and hugging him giving him all of that love. It felt so fucking good. 

 

He didn’t even now that he was crying until his girlfriend had dropped to the ground, pulling him down with her. She was now cradling him and saying inane things. It was soothing, like one of those rainbow colored band aids that she would use to cover his guitar cuts being placed over that gaping wound on his heart. Her fingers were pressed into his hips and in his hair, a grounding weight that reminded him that she was still there. He could hear her heartbeat from this position, another reminder that she was alive.

 

He gave a shuddering breath then shifted his head a little. She seemed to be thinking the same thing, and their lips met in a soft kiss. And just like that Frank got all the closure that he needed. His whole body seemed alive and tingling, charged just by something as simple as a kiss. But it was a kiss with her. Of course she could make him feel alive.


End file.
